


There Are Many Wonders In A Cow's Head

by UnrelentingHost



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Iceland, M/M, Parentlock, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Season/Series 04, the final problem never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-01 15:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10193003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnrelentingHost/pseuds/UnrelentingHost
Summary: Sherlock drags John and Rosie to Iceland to solve a murder. He insists it's a family holiday.





	1. Volcanoes, Glaciers, and the Promise of Corpse

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP and I have no idea how long it'll take me to finish this. Hopefully I can use this fic as a therapeutic outlet while my film is in post-production.  
> They say write what you know, so I decided our Baker Street Boys (and girl) needed a holiday in Iceland.  
> The title is a translation of an Icelandic phrase. It's something you'd say if something quite unbelievable is happening. Like "doesn't that beat all".  
> Some chapters will have explicit content. As in graphic descriptions of corpses and sex. Hopefully not at the same time. Then again, it's Sherlock, so...  
> I'll make notes on those chapters when they roll around ;)  
> Not beta-ed.

“John?”

Sherlock was calling from the kitchen while John was wrestling his 1 year old into a complicated pajama onsie.

“Yeah?” He called back and carefully threaded Rosie's right foot into place, making sure her little toes didn't get caught between the snap-and-click buttons that ran all the way down the leg of the onsie.

“We should go on holiday,” was the answer from the kitchen.

John halted a bit and Rosie squirmed. With a snort, he called back. “Are you taking the piss?” Rosie's fingers refused to cooperate and kept getting caught in the sleeve.

“Were would you want to go?” Was Sherlock's only response.

John sighed and finished buttoning up the ridiculous garment. Seriously, was it really necessary to have buttons down both legs as well as the front? It looked like an upside-down Y-incision, and John really didn't want to compare his daughter to a corpse during autopsy. He picked Rosie up from the sofa, held her against his hip, and made his way to the kitchen while she happily hit him in the face with the teething ring she really didn't need any longer.

“No, honey, don't hit Daddy,” John murmured and promptly got another wet smack to the cheek, “at least not in the face”.

“John?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope as John entered. He could swear he saw mirth in Sherlock's eyes even if he was trying to school his face into an expressionless mask.

“Sherlock,” John strolled passed where he was sitting at the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator to find a squeeze pouch for Rosie, “I've only been back here, for what? Three weeks? And I just started working again, right after Rosie's birthday, which was only a month and a half ago, or have you forgotten?” He sat Rosie down in her high-chair and passed her the open squeeze pouch.

“Yes, and honey bees fly at 15 miles per hour with a wing stroke of 11,400 times per minute,” Sherlock drawled while staring at Rosie, fascinated.

“What?”

“Oh, sorry, John. I thought we were stating random facts that have nothing to do with the conversation that I tried instigating a minute ago,” Sherlock stated with a dramatic eye-roll before steadying his gaze on John. “I asked you where you'd like to go”.

“We're not going on holiday, Sherlock,” John said with an air of finality.

“Pity,” Sherlock peered back into his microscope. Then switched topics, “we could take Rosie to the park tomorrow. It'll be Saturday, and I wouldn't mind collecting samples from the pond”.

John blinked. Twice. “Yeah, sure. Sounds nice”.

-

That had been a week ago.

Since then, Sherlock had called out random, albeit interesting, facts about foreign countries every day. His whole let's-go-on-holiday-idea had been far from dropped. Sherlock was adamant about the three of them going abroad to some holiday destination together, for some reason. John's strategy, so far, had been to just ignore him, hoping Sherlock would soon find a new experiment or a case to distract him.

But, of course, Sherlock couldn't let it go, even after a whole week of nothing but John's cold shoulder on the topic. So, John decided to engage him, just this once, hoping to put a lid on the idea.

Which is why when Sherlock asked: “How about Iceland?”

John answered with: “What about Iceland?”

“It's got volcanoes and glaciers.”

“Yes.”

“The Aurora Borealis should still be around at this time of year.”

“Uh huh.”

“And this morning, Ragnar Jónsson was found with his head bashed in on his living room floor.”

“What?” John sat bolt-upright on the sofa and stared across the sitting room at Sherlock, who was, of course, lounging in his chair with his laptop delicately balanced on his knees.

“95% of Iceland's energy is renewable; if we rent an electric car it would do wonders for our carbon footprint.”

John shook his head, not sure he was reading the situation correctly. “Are you trying to tell me that you want us to go to _Iceland_ on a _case_ as a _holiday_ _treat_?”

Sherlock frowned a bit at that before pouting innocently. “I hear the natural hot springs can do wonders for the body.”

John couldn't hold back a chuckle. “This is getting ridiculous, Sherlock. I told you, I don't need a holiday.”

“But you deserve one!”

“No, I really don't,” John said quietly. When Sherlock showed obvious signs of a coming rebuttal, John cut him off. “Look, we can't go to Iceland because for one: It's very expensive. Secondly: It's dark, damp, and cold, and final and most importantly: It's god damn bloody expensive!” Having said his piece, John leant back against the sofa cushions, but Sherlock just glared at him.

“John, if I want to take you and Rosie on holiday, you know you needn't worry about the cost. Also,” his voice softened, “I thought it might be nice to go away together. We haven't done that since Baskerville, and this time we'd be going as a-, uh, you know...” When John just looked on uncomprehending, he sighed and finished. “As a family.”

John felt his lips stretch into a fond smile. He couldn't help it. Sherlock had really changed and grown over the past two years. That he considered John and Rosie a part of his family still caught John by surprise sometimes. At times like this, John knew he wouldn't be able to deny Sherlock anything.

“If you say so.”

Sherlock beamed. “Plus, it's a _murder_. In _Iceland_! They are incredibly rare!” He leapt up from the chair, flinging his laptop onto John's chair as he went, and spun out of the sitting room. “Start packing, John! Our flight leaves tomorrow morning!”

Well, he had agreed, hadn't he?

-

Keflavík Airport was incredibly windy. John grimaced as he wrapped his arms around Rosie and followed Sherlock who was being uncharacteristically helpful as he was dragging all of their luggage behind him.

The wind stung his eyes and John blinked away a few tears so he could take in his surroundings. There wasn't that much to see, to be honest. Just endless tarmac and cars. At least there was no snow.

“Here we are!” Sherlock announced and, with a flourish, indicated to a small green car. It looked brand new, and somewhat futuristic, John would admit, but it was rather tiny. Sherlock looked happy enough, so John just shrugged. “Don't worry, John. It comes with a car seat for Rosie.”

And with that, Sherlock somehow managed to cram their luggage in the back, John fastened Rosie in her seat, and they were off.

“Didn't you say something about this place being beautiful?” John criticized. The landscape looked bleak, so far. They were driving down a highway in the middle of nowhere. Literally. The North Atlantic to their left. Empty moss covered lava plain on their right.

“I think it's incredibly beautiful.” There was something in Sherlock's voice that made John turn to look at him. Sherlock's eyes snapped to the road again.

They arrived at their hotel around noon. It was right in the heart of down town Reykjavík. They had driven past colourful little houses and a pretty pond full of ducks, swans, and other water fowl. John struggled to imagine how high the rate of their room must've been, because the location was simply superb. The hotel was within spitting distance from the pond (John vowed to take Rosie down to feed the ducks at some point) and, according to the map on his phone, right next to the _parliament_.

“Sherlock? Are we staying in the backyard of Iceland's parliament?”

Sherlock threw a cheeky grin at him. “Mycroft would be jealous!”

John couldn't help but giggle and they walked side by side into the building, Rosie dead asleep in his arms. Sherlock stated his name to the clerk behind the service desk in lieu of greeting.

“Good day and welcome to Kvósin,” the man said with a bright smile, seemingly unperturbed by Sherlock's lack of social grace. John gave the man an apologetic smile.

“Thank you. I'm John Watson and this is, well, Sherlock.”

“We have a booking under Holmes”, Sherlock stated again, although there was an air of excitement about him instead of the usual disinterest.

“Here you go,” the clerk handed them two key-cards. “My name is Gunnar. Don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything. Your apartment is on the second floor to the right.”

Wait? _Apartment_?

“Sher-,” John turned to him but he was already walking towards the stairs with their luggage in tow. John shook his head. “Never mind him, he's always like that.” With a final nod at the clerk, John followed suit.

He caught up with him on the second floor. “The clerk said apartment, not room.”

“How very observant of you, John.” Sherlock swiped his card and opened the door.

It was, in fact, an actual flat. John hadn't known what to expect, but what was in front of him right now certainly wasn't it. The flat was modern, open, and spacious. It had a breakfast bar, a kitchen table, lounge area with an orange sofa and a glass coffee table, and at the back stood two queen sized beds separated only by a bit of wall.

“Cubicle beds,” John snorted, finding this incredibly funny for some reason. Then again, he'd never seen anything like this before. Sherlock simply hummed and set their luggage down by one of the beds. John closed the door and stood awkwardly in the middle of the flat (Jesus, a flat!) with Rosie breathing sleepily on his neck. She'd woken up as he'd ascended the stairs earlier.

“I didn't know how long we'd be staying, so I thought I'd better go with this rather than two separate rooms. This way, I can mind Rosie if she wakes up fussing in the middle of the night,” Sherlock mumbled sheepishly.

“Oh.” John felt something clutch at his chest. “That's, yeah, good. Very thoughtful. Thank you, Sherlock.” Sherlock gave him a small smile.

Soon the moment passed and Sherlock pulled out his phone.“Time for lunch, I gather? Then crime scene!” A manic grin stretched across his face. Back to normal, then. Sort of.

“Sherlock Holmes suggesting a meal? Is this the real life?”

“It's a precaution for my own sanity, John. I know by now how grumpy Watsons get if they're not fed regularly.”

At this, they both laughed.

 

 

 


	2. How To Housebreak With Your Toddler

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “You're going to get us thrown out of a country we've barely been in for more than five hours.”

“Nonsense, John.”

 _Shit_. John was currently trying to look inconspicuous while holding a baby and glaring at a certain Consulting Detective who was, of all things, _housebreaking_. It was only mid afternoon and they were in a quiet respectable neighbourhood in the suburbs of Reykjavík. John knew the Icelandic people were tolerant and friendly, but somewhere they must draw the line. Surely.

“I can't believe we came all the way over here and you didn't bother working with the local police.” John's tone was scolding. This was typical Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock all but whined. “I thought I told you before. This is Iceland. Murders are incredibly rare and one needs at least 10.000 hours of practice to become adequate at something. Therefore, it's safe to conclude that the Reykjavík Police Department consists of utter imbeciles.” Sherlock pocketed his tools with a graceful flick of his wrist to further nail home the point that he was the expert here, the impossible wanker.

John barely held back an exasperated sigh. “It's master, you git. You need to practice something for 10.000 hours to become a master, Sherlock, and that's just something people say. It's not hard science,” he finished lamely, but followed Sherlock anyway into the eerie darkness of the house.

Sherlock didn't say anything further on the topic, which was the closest John would come to being right. They advanced slowly through the mudroom, down a short hallway, and emerged in what appeared to be the living room. It wasn't too dark in there, but the blinds were drawn (probably due to the fact that the crime scene hadn't been cleared, yet) and John had to strain his eyes a bit to see any details.

“Should we turn on the lights?” John inquired, but Sherlock had already pulled out a pocket flash-light and was brandishing it vehemently, illuminating what appeared to be copious amounts of blood on the floor. “Oh, god! I've already made my daughter into an accomplice”.

Sherlock simply ignored him and continued raking his eyes across the scene with his usual intense focus. There was blood seemingly everywhere. Splatters on the sofa, ceiling, walls, floor, and very prominently on the corner of the sturdy coffee table.

“So, when you said bashed-,” John started.

“Indeed, John.” Sherlock bent to inspect the coffee table. “This can't have been pleasant.”

John snorted. No, not in the slightest. There were no good ways to die, but some were considerably worse than others. This was one of the worse ones. John could imagine the terror the victim must have experienced when he was being literally beaten to death. The sheer amount of blood seamed to indicate that his heart had kept beating for quite a while while his body suffered the abuse. Hopefully, John thought, the presumed blow to the head caused by the coffee table had knocked the man unconscious; sparing him the brunt of the beating. Something clicked in John's head, painfully, and he gasped out loud.

“I'd better leave, Sherlock. I don't know what I was thinking, bringing Rosie. This, the blood, is just-- oh god! I'm awful!”

Sherlock snapped out of his protracted state, turned on the spot, and grabbed John by the armpit. “Quite right,” he proclaimed and marched them out of the house.

They walked quickly to the car and drove to a nearby playground. It was small and weathered, fenced off, and tucked between houses on all sides. It was rather cozy, John thought. They exited the car without a word and wandered into the playground. Rosie was bundled up in a one-piece snowsuit, boots, mittens, and one of those hats that covered the whole head and neck with a hole for the face to peak out. They had gone shopping after lunch and apparently all of that gear was a standard for Icelandic children. Lest they freeze to death, John assumed.

The weather wasn't all that bad. He was just being overprotective and dramatic, as usual. He put Rosie down and held her hand as they walked achingly slowly towards the swing set. There was a toddler seat on one of the swings, so that's where John was headed. Sherlock followed them silently, like some dark and ethereal guardian.

“We need to lay down some ground rules if we're gonna do this,” John began, lifting Rosie up and into the seat on the swing. Once he was satisfied that she couldn't possibly fall out, he started pushing her gently. She squealed with delight. Sherlock stood and watched him silently, waiting for him to continue. “I mean, I can't bring her on crime scenes. I don't know what I was thinking, before. Probably not thinking at all.”

Sherlock still didn't speak, but he did close the distance to them and started pushing Rosie from the other end. John faltered a little. The sight of Sherlock doing something so utterly domestic threw him off.

“So, err, ground rules, yeah?” John stepped to the side, allowing Sherlock to push Rosie by himself. He leaned against the sturdy wooden frame of the swing set. “We need to find someone to watch Rosie while we investigate the case, and only for a few hours at a time. This is still a vacation and I want to do vacation stuff with her... and you, so no running off on your own.”

Sherlock looked him in the eye and nodded. Alright, so those terms were acceptable to him, then. John took a deep breath. He knew what he was going to say next might spark an argument, but it had to be said.

“And finally, you will reach out to the local police and try to work with them.” Sherlock scowled at him and opened his mouth. “No, listen! I'm not going to get arrested for housebreaking or mistaken for a murderer while in a foreign country with _my_ _daughter_. If we get into trouble, what will become of Rosie, huh?” John set his jaw and glared hotly at Sherlock, who stood a bit dumbfounded for a second. Then Rosie kicked him in the head on her return swing and laughed shrilly. It was the most beautiful sound in the world and he couldn't help grinning like an idiot. Sherlock grunted and rubbed the side of his head, but John could see his lips twitching at the corners.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock sighed with a put-on exasperation. “I will follow your silly little rules for Rosie's sake, now can I please tell you all my brilliant deductions I made at the crime scene?”

John allowed himself a fond chuckle and reach over to stop Rosie's swinging. “Alright, genius, but you'll have to help me with her on the slide.”

-

According to Sherlock, Ragnar Jónsson had been an alcoholic and a drug addict. He had been in huge debt and had only recently fallen off the wagon after having been sober for at least 15 years. He had been unemployed at the time of death, but Sherlock reckoned he'd once had a high income job (not a complex deduction given the nice house and neighbourhood the man had inhabited). All of that had of course been evident by the wear on the furniture, the arrangement of the kitchen, and the odd placement of an ugly bust on the mantle.

John was having a hard time following Sherlock's leaps in logic, and had a sinking feeling that the local D.I. (or whatever their title was out here) would have an even harder time of it. They would find out soon enough, as they were currently driving towards the police station at 113 Hverfisgata, which was of course located down town. When John thought about it, they could as well just walk over there from their hotel.

“Sherlock?” John mused. “Why don't we just go and park our car at the hotel and then walk to the station? You know, see the sights and stuff?” In all honesty, John really just wanted to delay the inevitable.

“Excellent idea! I need to acclimatise myself to Reykjavík. Know it intimately. Breathe it in.” That manic spark was back in his eyes and John could hear his own blood thumping in his ears. The symptoms of The Game. Oh, how he loved this.

They popped into the hotel to ask the clerk if they had any strollers for rent; John's arms were about to fall off from carrying Rosie. Toddlers were deceptively heavy. The clerk had smiled and nodded and before long, John, Sherlock, and Rosie were on their way.

Reykjavík was beautiful. Well, at least this part of it was. Here the streets were narrow and full of pedestrians. The buildings were quaint and colourful, and some even adorned with extraordinary artwork. Every other building seemed to house a pub or a café, and the rest were either tourist shops or expensive looking designer clothing stores. John had to almost drag Sherlock past a couple of them.

“Murder, remember?” John had hissed, but Sherlock had simply pouted at him.

They were almost at the station according to John's phone when Sherlock suddenly burst into giggles.

“What?” John looked up from his phone and stared at Sherlock. He was truly giggling, like a teenager. “Christ, you're almost middle-aged, Sherlock. What the hell?”

But Sherlock kept giggling and wheezing. Then he grabbed John's head with both hands and spun him so he faced a... Penis Museum.

Or rather, The Icelandic Phallological Museum.

Now it was John's turn to lose it. He took a couple of deep breaths, trying to steel himself, before he burst out laughing. There they stood. Two men in their late thirties and early forties, one in a bespoke suit, the other with a baby in a stroller, and they were positively howling with laughter.

“This is... The perfect place... For you, Sherlock,” John managed between guffaws. “I always said... You were... A cock!”

This sent Sherlock into hysterics. He was leaning against the wall, clutching his middle, and cackling. They were attracting a fair bit of attention, now, but John couldn't give a rat's arse about what other people thought. He was having the time of his life with his best friend, and it was perfect.

They finally managed to calm down a bit and after a short walk, they arrived at their destination. The Reykjavík Metropolitan Police was housed in an unassuming white building next to a large bus station. Now that they were here, John felt anxiety pooling in his belly. Sherlock didn't have the best track record when it came to officers of the law. He had no idea how Sherlock came to work with the Yard and now he regretted not asking about it. He had a vague theory involving Sherlock maybe stumbling onto a crime scene while high and spouting off outrageous deductions until Greg either started taking him seriously or arrested him. It had probably been both. He made mental note about asking Greg about it over a pint once he got back to London, knowing Sherlock would probably never tell him the whole truth.

“Got a plan?” John asked when Sherlock held the door open so he could enter with the stroller.

“Nope.”

“Great. We're going to get thrown out, aren't we?”

“Possibly.”

The door fell shut behind them with a soft thud, and John steeled himself for an undoubtedly very awkward encounter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, believe it or not, The Reykjavík Metropolitan Police Station is within spitting distance from a museum dedicated to penises.


	3. Insulting Detective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a fair bit of dialogue in Icelandic in this chapter (and probably the rest of the fic once I finish writing it, but alas) but you should be able to hover over those bits to get the translation.  
> I'll add it in the notes at the end as well, for those on mobile.

The Reykjavík Metropolitan Police Department was quite different from NSY. It wasn't bustling with activity like what John was used to. There was a front desk with a bored looking officer sitting behind it. As John and Sherlock approached, she looked up and smiled at them.

“[Góðan daginn](http://www.google.com),” the officer, or Steinunn according to her name tag, greeted them.

“Oh, uhm, sorry we-” John started but Sherlock cut him off.

“We're here to see the detective who's handling the case of Ragnar Jónsson.” Sherlock's pronunciation of the foreign name sounded perfect to John's ears. He felt goosebumps prickle his forearms. Talented arse.

Steinunn seemed unperturbed and switched instantly into English. “Is she expecting you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock spat with a curt nod in the general direction of the offices that surely laid at the back of the building. Steinunn eyed them but didn't call out Sherlock's lie. Her eyes wandered over to Rosie; she was probably wondering why they had a baby in tow if they were on official business at a police station.

“Alright, just a moment,” she gave Sherlock a polite smile and picked up a phone receiver. “[Sæl, Auðun?](google.com)” John had absolutely no idea if that was a general greeting or perhaps someone's name. “[Já, þetta er Steinunn hérna frammí andyri. Það er hérna maður að spyrjast eftir þér](google.com).” Steinunn paused for a second, eyed them again, and pulled the receiver slightly away from her face. “What's your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock stated with considerable authority in his voice; a trick he must've picked up from Mycroft.

“Thank you.” She turned to the phone again. “[Hann segist heita Sherlock Holmes, segist vilja tala við þig í sambandi við morðið á Ragnari.](google.com)” Another pause as she listened for a reply. Her eyebrows drew together and she frowned slightly. Oh, here we go. “[Hann sagði að þú býstir við honum](google.com).” There's that tone. Confusion. They were so going to get kicked out. “[Hann hljómaði fullviss.](google.com)” John tightened his grip on Rosie's stroller. “[Heyrðu, já, allt í lagi. Ég skal senda þá inn.](google.com)” Another pause, almost like she got interrupted. John took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable. “[Já, fyrirgefðu, þetta eru tveir menn. Sagði ég það ekki? Allavega, það standa hér tveir breskir menn, held ég, með barn í kerru](google.com)”. She was smiling now so perhaps their situation wasn't as dire as he thought. “[Nei, ég er ekki að grínast. Ég ætla að senda þá inn. Bless bless.](google.com)” She finally hung up.

“Well?” Sherlock demanded petulantly.

“Auðun was not expecting you but she's willing to see you anyway,” she rose from her chair and walked towards a door to their right. “Follow me.”

Steinunn held the door open for them so they could enter with Rosie, then she let it fall closed and lead them down a narrow hallway until they reached an open space full of desks, paperwork, and chatting police officers. She beelined towards a door across from them and knocked sharply before opening it. John could see a brunette woman in her forties sitting behind a large desk as Steinunn ushered them inside. The woman, Auðun John presumed, looked up but didn't acknowledge them in any way.

“[Takk, Steinunn](google.com),” Auðun said and waived Steinunn out the door which closed automatically with a dull thud.

A blanket of silence was thrown over the office as Sherlock and Auðun simply glared at each other. John felt a little more uncomfortable than usual when it came to situations like this. Probably due to them being in a foreign country, for god's sake. He cleared his throat and sat in one of the chairs opposite Auðun's desk.

“Which of you is Sherlock?” Auðun finally broke the silence and Sherlock bristled visibly, but didn't answer immediately.

“Sorry, this is Sherlock Holmes and my name is John Watson,” John tried for casual but he was sure he still sounded incredibly awkward. He silently pleaded for Sherlock to just sit down and behave for once.

“Sherlock, John, nice to meet you. My name is Auðun Steinþórsdóttir.” She nodded at each of them as she said their names. “Care to tell me what you are doing here?” John had to admire her bluntness.

“We'd like to work with you on the investigation of the murder of Ragnar Jónsson,” Sherlock said, just as bluntly. John suppressed a sigh.

“Excuse me?” Auðun was frowning and John felt the need to intervene.

“What he means to say is that he is a Consulting Detective and would like to offer his services to your department.”

“I can speak for myself, John,” Sherlock hissed quietly.

Auðun looked even more confused than before, but Sherlock seemed to consider John's brief explanation more than enough and therefore stayed silent.

“I'm not sure I understand,” said Auðun slowly. “I don't see a camera crew trailing behind you so I'm assuming you're serious.”

“Of course I'm serious,” Sherlock retorted. “I'm a detective who consults, and frankly you are in dire need of consulting because your complete lack of-”

“Sherlock, please. Not helping,” John interrupted. “Look, Auðun,” he cringed as he completely butchered her name. “We work a lot with the Met in London and we are simply offering our assistance should you need it.”

“Well, I don't think that is-” Auðun started, but Sherlock, unfortunately, cut her off.

“John, that's not true. We're not just offering our help _just_ _in_ _case_ they need it. We're saying we'd like to be brought in on the case, full stop.” Sherlock turned back to Auðun who was staring up at him aghast. “Please?” he added after a brief consideration, but of course it sounded like he was shamming politeness. Which he was. John knew then and there that the fight was over.

“I don't know who you think you are,” Auðun said, having regained her composure. “But this is not how things work around here. I cannot allow complete strangers _and their_ _baby_ waltz all over the place when we're trying to do our jobs. Thank you for a great story to share with my colleagues but now I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I know this case is troubling both you and the rest of your team. It's been two days since the murder occurred and at least four members of your department are not getting enough sleep. The only ones seeming in high spirits are the short blond haired woman at the desk by the window, and the ginger man in the glasses. However, that is only due to the fact that they recently started sleeping with each other.” Sherlock paused briefly for effect.

Oh, god no. This was not good. Not one bit. John grimaced.

“You yourself got up late this morning, probably due to your inability to stop working even when at home, and did a sloppy job of buttering your son's sandwiches before hastily putting them in a lunch-box he doesn't prefer. He's bound to complain after school today. Furthermore, you are no closer to solving this murder than you were two days ago, and the public's demand of quick closure is driving your boss around the bend. I'm sure the press will be relentless tomorrow afternoon if you're unable to show further developments.”

Sherlock seemed to be done for now, so John let out a breath he'd been holding for a while. Auðun's face was hard to read. She either looked incredulous or astounded. Then something shifted and John was sure that now it was fury he was seeing in her face.

“Get. Out.” She snarled furiously, but otherwise didn't move a muscle.

“Yes, yes. Of course. I'm sorry,” John blurted out, stood up, and practically shoved Sherlock out the door. They walked briskly towards the lobby, John not daring to look back. If they hurried, they might avoid arrest.

Steinunn was waiting for them by the front desk. “How did it go?” she asked with a grin that would've looked more natural on a shark.

“Your partner is cheating on you with your brother,” Sherlock spat out at her and strode out the front doors.

John hesitated for a second, glancing apologetically in Steinunn's direction, before following suit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Alright, just a moment,” she gave Sherlock a polite smile and picked up a phone receiver. “Hi, Auðun?” John had absolutely no idea if that was a general greeting or perhaps someone's name. “Yes, this is Steinunn here from the front desk. There is a man here asking for you.” Steinunn paused for a second, eyed them again, and pulled the receiver slightly away from her face. “What's your name?”
> 
> “Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock stated with considerable authority in his voice; a trick he must've picked up from Mycroft.
> 
> “Thank you.” She turned to the phone again. “He says his name is Sherlock Holmes. Says he's here to discuss the murder of Ragnar with you.” Another pause as she listened for a reply. Her eyebrows drew together and she frowned slightly. Oh, here we go. “He said you were expecting him.” There's that tone. Confusion. They were so going to get kicked out. “He sounded very sure of himself.” John tightened his grip on Rosie's stroller. “Listen, yes, alright. I'll send them in.” Another pause, almost like she got interrupted. John took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable. “Yes, sorry, there are two men. Didn't I say so? Anyway, there are two British men standing here, I think, with a baby in a stroller”. She was smiling now so perhaps their situation wasn't as dire as he thought. “No, I'm not kidding. I'm going to send them in now. Bye bye.” She finally hung up.


End file.
